Rodin's Lover (6 page)

Camille returned his smile, pleased to be selecting her first professional model.

“It isn’t uncommon for entire families to model. They make it the family business of sorts. There.” Boucher pointed at a family of husband, wife, and two children clustered together. Their fair hair and squared jaws resembled one another’s.

A man shoved Camille aside, nearly knocking her and Boucher off their feet.

The man raised his hand. “DeRossis!” he shouted. He pointed to a family of raven-haired beauties with long, straight noses and high cheekbones. A child of no more than four leapt into his mother’s arms. The father nodded and the family followed.

“Most certainly an Italian family,” Boucher said. “Many travel to France for opportunities.”

Amy and Emily stood to the side, arms crossed, watching as Boucher led Camille through the crush of bodies. She did not miss the jealousy etched on Amy’s face. Amy wanted Boucher to take her under his wing, rather than Camille; that was clear. Perhaps if Amy spent less time flirting with the male students in class and took her work more seriously he would.

A gentleman approached Camille. “Are you employed with someone yet, mademoiselle?” The man’s shrewd gaze appraised her appearance as if sizing up a thoroughbred.

Her mouth fell open but emitted no sound; she was stunned.

The man looked to Boucher. “What have you agreed to pay her? I will double it.”

Camille wanted to slug him. “I am a sculptor, monsieur, not a model.”

“You owe Mademoiselle Claudel an apology. She is an artist,” Monsieur Boucher said.

The man winked at Camille and disappeared among the crowd.

Boucher regarded the anger on Camille’s face and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Never mind. Come.”

Minute to minute, the throng thinned as models followed their employers.

“How about her?” Camille pointed at a woman of medium height in a showy gown nearest the fountain. A large bustle jutted out behind her in layers of forest green brocade, cinched with bows. The woman appeared wealthy, though Camille knew better. Most models were as poverty-stricken as the artists who sketched them. “She isn’t precisely pretty, but her brow is interesting and her form is healthy.”

With a perfect mix of interesting features and a touch of classic beauty, the woman would make a fine model. The arc of her lily white neck was as graceful as a swan’s.

“A good choice, mademoiselle.” Boucher said.

Camille wanted to sing. Their own model!

The group made their way through the crowd. When they had reached the model, Monsieur Boucher began introductions. “Pardon me, mademoiselle, but I am Alfred Boucher—”

“Boucher!” the model interrupted. “I am honored to work with you, monsieur.” She smiled brightly. “I’ve heard many great things about your work.”

“
Merci
, but you will not work with me, but my protégé and her classmates—Mesdemoiselles Claudel, Fawcett, and Singer.” He indicated each of them.

Camille smiled. “
Bonjour
.”

The model scrutinized Camille from the tip of her navy hat to the hem of her unadorned dress. “But you are a woman,” the model said. “You are all women.”

“The power of your observation is impressive,” Camille retorted.

The woman pursed her lips. “My name is Maria Botticelli. And I do not work with amateurs.”

“Mademoiselle Botticelli, these women are serious sculptors,” Boucher said. “They will pay the wages you request. Your association with them will not diminish your reputation. On the contrary, you may
find yourself with more work. They are a talented group.” He looked pointedly at Camille—a warning for her to be polite.

Camille wasn’t certain she wanted to work with this woman. Her sour attitude might interfere with her ability to do as she was told. “We will find another model,” she said. “I will not be looked upon with derision and I certainly will not tolerate a poor attitude in my atelier.”

Amy and Emily snickered at her blunt assertion.

“I apologize, mesdemoiselles, monsieur,” Maria said quickly, glancing at the diminishing crowd. “I have never worked with women, but I am happy to accept the job and follow your instructions. When shall we begin?”

Camille scrutinized Mademoiselle Botticelli for an instant, making the model squirm under her intense gaze. She absorbed Maria’s proud demeanor, her lovely features, and the insecurity that rolled off her person. She would make an interesting study.

“You start today.”

T
he heat in the foundry always surprised Auguste, perhaps because his ateliers were bone cold in winter. Today he came to ensure his
fondeur
made a negative cast of
Dante
, exactly as he had sculpted it. He trusted Henri Lebossé—he had cast most of Auguste’s pieces in bronze perfectly—but one never knew when a detail might be missed or Lebossé had a bad day on the job. Auguste would not hesitate to ask him to recast a piece if that day ever arrived. Imperfections were unacceptable.

“No bubbles in the mold?” Rodin asked.

“None.” Lebossé presented the bust for inspection.

“You’ve chased the seam lines nicely.” He ran his thumb over the filmy edges of the piece’s legs. The mold had left crease marks in the wax that an expert hand had blended until no longer visible. “You’ve done a brilliant job along the muscle lines.”

“Thank you, monsieur.” Henri smiled, displaying a set of teeth that jutted too far from the line of his jaw. The poor fellow looked like a damned rabbit with his teeth, bushy beard, and corpulent belly, but he knew how to bronze better than anyone.

Lebossé carved a hole in the wax head to prepare it for shelling; the piece would be dipped in solution and sanded in layer after layer over weeks to form a strong outer mold. Once the outer mold had hardened, the bust would be heated and the wax drained.

Auguste walked into the next room to survey the other copy of
Dante
. It had already been layered and heated, and now sat filled with molten bronze. Even after years and several pieces, he still enjoyed watching the founder’s assistants chip away the outer sandy crust to reveal a bronze replica of his original. He browsed a hall of finished works. The metallic patina gave the myriad of shapes a lustrous finish in the light.

Rodin frowned at his pocket watch. He expected Jules Dalou, one of his closest sculptor friends, more than half an hour ago. They had agreed to meet at the foundry and walk together to the Café Américain. Jules said he had news.

As if conjured by his thoughts, a familiar voice resonated behind him. “I am sorry I’m late.”

Rodin turned to find his wiry friend red faced and blowing hot breath on his hands to ward off the cold. “I was just wondering where you were,” he said.

“Monsieur Rodin.” Lebossé joined them. “Your busts will be ready for shipping tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Auguste nodded and followed Jules to the door. A blast of icy air greeted them and he lifted his collar against the cold.

“Boucher said he would join us later,” Dalou said. “He’s working with a student of his. Someone named Claudel. Said he couldn’t let her down by canceling. Whatever that means.”

“He couldn’t reschedule with a
female
student?” She must be important to him, Auguste thought. He smiled to himself. The dog. Alfred was probably sleeping with her.

“There’s talk of reestablishing the Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts.” Dalou broke into his thoughts. “It’s not organized yet, but the Artistes Français selected another round of inexperienced louts to sort through Salon submissions. Our fate lies in the hands of the least qualified men in the country.”

“Who will lead the group?” Auguste asked through frozen lips.

“I would like to be the president, if the others will have me.” Jules tucked his hands under his arms for warmth. “But first, we will have to choose a location for an annual salon.”

“The move will enrage the Artistes Français. Are you certain you want to anger the people who support you?”

Dalou had received the Medal of Honor for his reliefs of the
Estates
General, Meeting of June 23, 1789
and another titled
Fraternity
—both dedicated to the memory of the French Revolution. Auguste had been so proud of his friend he had sculpted a bust of him in celebration, though Jules had yet to congratulate him on his own success of several smaller bronze commissions.

“I don’t give a damn about the ministers and their awards,” Jules said, avoiding a slippery patch on the sidewalk. “And I’d like you to join us.”

Auguste would join his friends, but he wouldn’t turn away the Artistes Français. It would be career suicide. They still held the majority of influence, not to mention most of the funding for public commissions.

Another gust of cold air sliced through the waning warmth of his coat and hat. The men increased their pace. The café lay just around the corner.

“You said you have news,” Auguste said. “Are you going to tell me or do I have to beg?”

His friend laughed. “You will never believe it.”

When they reached their destination, Auguste whipped open the café door and heat enveloped them. The men removed their coats and hats and chose a table.

“Well?” He blew hot breath on his frigid fingers.

Jules frowned. “They have awarded me the Légion d’Honneur.”

“Why on earth are you frowning? Congratulations!” Rodin held out his hand for a hearty shake.

Jules pursed his lips in displeasure, giving his already thin cheeks a sunken look.

Auguste lowered his hand, surprised by his friend’s rebuff. “You’re an anointed one now. This is fantastic.”

“It’s a medal devised by that imperial tyrant. Awarded to pieces deemed as art in the eyes of the Bonapartes, who, might I add, knew nothing about art, but merely stole it from other countries.”

Rodin would kill for the recognition, regardless of who had originally put the award in place. “Now it’s an award granted by the republic. It’s prestigious. A golden seal.”

“I am not going to accept it. It’s an assault on my integrity.” Jules sipped from his wineglass.

Auguste knew other artists who had refused the honor. He hated the
institut
and the standards of the old guard as well, but he couldn’t conceive of refusing the award. The public revered the winning artists. The greasy unease of envy swam in his stomach. No, he would not be jealous of his friend. He wished him the utmost happiness and success; he truly did.

“It means freedom in your work,
mon ami
,” Auguste said.

“I will have more work, yes. But it is your busts of Legros and Laurens that have garnered all of the support in the papers. ‘Rodin is the artist to watch’ and so forth.” Dalou’s eyes darkened.

Auguste flinched at Jules’s implied jealousy. His friend had received two of the highest honors an artist could win, yet he worried over a few write-ups about him in the newspaper. They had been friends for years—Jules had even appeared at his father’s funeral, a comfort Rodin had appreciated in the midst of his devastation—yet he had not seen this side of him.

Dalou went on, “What good is an award when I am not respected? Certainly you are.”

Though Auguste’s cheeks had thawed, he struggled to fight the ice water in his veins. A confidence between him and his oldest friend had come to an end.

“Maria Botticelli is a real trial.” Camille rolled over on Paul’s bed. “She thinks she is above my instruction, and it is I who pay her.”

“What do the others say?” Paul asked.

“Amy and Emily don’t reproach her. They allow her to prattle on, complaining about every pose, sniveling about the cold, the crick in her neck, after only minutes in her position. If she doesn’t like the work, she shouldn’t do it. I am fed up with her and it has only been a month.”

“Perhaps you should give her more breaks.” Paul peered at her over the edge of his book. “I have posed often enough for you. You’re a demanding little wench.”

She tossed a pillow at her brother. He blocked it with his fist before it reached his face.

“Maria is paid to be still.” She crossed her ankles and eyed the
polished leather of her boots. “I allot plenty of time to stretch or take meals. Monsieur Boucher says it is difficult to find good models. He believes paying her more will encourage her to shut her mouth.”

“Why don’t you take his advice?”

“We do not have more money, and I don’t believe she will behave better.” She snapped one of Paul’s suspender straps.

“Ouch! What did you do that for?” He rolled upright into a sitting position, giving her his back.

Camille laughed. “You lie there so innocently.” She rubbed his back. “I’m sorry, brother.” Something about their relationship brought out the child in her, despite her nineteen years.

He looked over his shoulder. “I have just found out I have the highest marks in the class in letters and literature.”

Camille propped herself up on one elbow. “Of course you do! Shall we celebrate? I will buy you
une demi
. Whatever beer you wish.”

“Don’t you have a gentleman caller this evening?”

She flopped against the pillow and groaned. “Monsieur Bertillion. He isn’t all bad, but I am not interested. I had hoped to frighten him the last time we met.”

Paul laughed. “Better luck next time.”

There wouldn’t be a next time. Camille jumped to her feet. “Come on!” She pulled on her pelisse and fastened a burgundy hat to her hair with pins.

“You don’t think Mother will notice us walking out the front door?” he asked, skeptical.

“We’ll make a quick getaway.” She tugged on his hand. “Let’s go to the Étoile area. I’ve been dying to see the electric streetlamps.”

Paul ran a nervous hand through his blond hair. “My hat is in the front hall.”

She smiled, her eyes alight with mischief. “Fetch it, quietly.”

Camille inched the bedroom door open. Paul tiptoed down the stairs behind her, nearly knocking over a vase perched on a decorative table in the corridor. She pushed a finger to her lips. When they reached the front hall, Paul snatched his hat from the rack and followed Camille through the door. It stuck as he tried to pull it closed.

“Come on!” Camille raced down the apartment stairs.

“It won’t close.” He jerked on the latch, slamming the door. He
thundered after her without regard to the clattering he made in the hall. Camille threw open the building’s main door and paused to venture a look over her shoulder. The maid poked her head out.

“Run, Paul!” she squealed.

He held his hat to his head and dashed after her. They had run ten meters when the building door opened and Mother peered out into the dark.

“
Arrêtez!
” she shouted. “Right this instant!” She waved her arms about as if the house were on fire. The crinoline under her cream skirts swayed like a bell. “Camille, Paul! How dare you leave our guest unattended! Come back here!”

Camille laughed in glee, nearly slamming into a figure clad in a striped suit.

“Pardon me,” the man said.

At once Camille recognized the astute face of Alphonse Bertillion. “I apologize, but I must go!” she shouted without slowing. Paul ran fast at her heels.

They ducked around the corner and huddled in the doorway of a church, Ursulines de Jésus. Paul leaned over, panting. “We’ll be in for it when we return.”

Camille laughed, her stomach aflutter from the thrill of stealing away. “Mother will yell, but I am a grown woman. I make my own decisions.”

“Which are usually
merde
,” he said, shoving her playfully.

She guffawed and then gulped in another breath. “My decisions aren’t shit.”

The echo of heels on stone drew closer. “Do you think Bertillion is following us?” Paul’s clear blue eyes widened.

“He’ll never follow us in here.” Camille pushed her brother inside the church, through the vestibule, and into the nave.

A hush enveloped them. Not a soul graced the rows of polished pews, though a priest must have lurked about. A circle of candles flickered on the altar. Their light dissipated in the vast darkness.

Camille stared at the towering ceiling. Their slightest movement would be amplified in such a cavernous space.

“This place is creepy,” Paul said, craning his neck to take in its wide expanse. When he looked down again, he met Camille’s watchful gaze. Her stillness unsettled him. “What?”

She saw the fear shining in his eyes. “They built those ceilings with purpose. To make us feel insignificant and small. To steal our sense of self. If God is all-loving, why would he wish for such a thing? If he exists, he does not reside here.”